


i am haunted by humans

by seraf



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Dissociation, Fluff, Hair Washing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Introspection, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Nudity, Past Abuse, Past Incest, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Game(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Stream of Consciousness, non-sexual nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 09:37:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18914335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraf/pseuds/seraf
Summary: the closest he was able to make himself come to bathing or showering was taking a wet washcloth and using that to scrub as much of his body as he could. as such, he hadn’t really been able to wash his hair, and it hangs limp in tatters around his neck.( he used to be so proud of it, once. )





	i am haunted by humans

‘ hey, ‘ rantaro says when people begin to drift out of the room after the half-hearted attempt at a meeting, and gently lifts one scraggly strand of kiyo’s hair, so greasy now that the anthropologist imagines rantaro’s finger looking like gasoline in the road after he tucks the strand behind kiyo’s ear. ‘ when’s the last time you washed this? ‘

 

it takes kiyo a moment to respond, with a listless shrug. when he’s had to make sure he was clean, the closest he was able to make himself come to bathing or showering was taking a wet washcloth and using that to scrub as much of his body as he could. as such, he hadn’t really been able to wash his hair, and it hangs limp in tatters around his neck.

 

( he used to be so proud of it, once. )

 

rantaro rests a hand on his knee, gently nudges the side of his face with two fingers until kiyo is, albeit with some reluctance, looking at him. ‘ do you think you could take a bath if i helped you? the water doesn’t need to be hot, you know. i can help if you freeze up again. ‘

 

kiyo’s vision drops away from his face for a moment, brows drawing together as he considers it. slowly, he nods, pushing himself to his feet in what felt like a herculaen effort, wavering as he did, the world swimming behind his eyelids, white pinpricks dancing across his vision. nausea creeps along his tongue, settles in the back of his throat like a bad taste. rantaro stands quickly as he does, and slings an arm around his shoulders to keep him on his feet.

 

kiyo can’t help but feel shame prickle at his chest. he was so weak. what would _she_ think, if she saw him now, filthy and weak and unable to even stand up without his head rushing so much he fears blackout?

 

pathetic.

 

he fills in the blanks himself.

 

( how had rantaro done this three times before? yes, he hadn’t died in that time, but . . . being drawn in and out of that false world again and again, doubting his own memories, having to know he would only just return once again . . . how did _he_ manage to stay standing? though - perhaps in some cruel machination of fate, he had just gotten used to it. wasn’t that a sick sort of thing? )

 

he apologizes silently to rantaro in his head, as though his idle thoughts are akin to talking about him behind his back. ( and once, it would have been. when he wasn’t hyperaware of the emptiness rattling about his own skull without _her_ voice there. ) on autopilot, his feet shuffle along, trying to match pace with the ex-survivor as he leans on him, walking to one of the multiple large bathrooms.

 

he finds himself suddenly staring at the tile of the bathroom floor, eyes idly following the random patterns that swirl throughout the granite, half-aware of the fact that he’s sitting now. it takes him a few moments to remember how to move, fingers twitching by his thighs for a second before he slowly started to move, painstakingly opening each button of his shirt, his hands trembling for the effort. ( why is this so hard? it shouldn’t be this hard. it _wasn’t_ that hard, before. but everything feels . . . heavy. )

 

bandages. he can’t let them get wet.

 

he hears the sound of water running, and his hand trembles, knuckles surely going white underneath the cloth.he forces a breath down as though he were drinking vinegar, shuddering all the way, and tugs off the bandages in a few jerky, wrenching motions, ignoring the burning across his arms as doing that so roughly pulls against fresh cuts and older scabs.

 

he kicks off his pants, trying not to feel his skin crawling as the air hits it. he feels _vulnerable._ like a wounded animal in the desert, watching birds of prey circle overhead. like a specimen laid out on an operating table. ( like a danganronpa participant. )

 

he imagines _her_ hands, sliding slowly over all of his skin, now bared, and he shivers violently, goosebumps rippling over him. bile rises in his throat, and he chokes it back down, shaking his head violently like a dog trying to dry itself. as though he could clear her off of his very soul.

 

rantaro sits next to him and rests a warm hand on his shoulder.

 

it feels like it burns. the goosebumps disappear. his spine releases the tension in his shoulders, back slumping. he shivers once again, and this time - this time it really does feel like her touch leaves him.

 

( she loved him. she loved him. she loved him. she loved him. she loved him. she loved him. she loved him. she loved him. she loved him. she loved him. she loved him. she loved him. she loved him. she loved him. she loved him. she loved him. she loved him. )

 

( why was he so ungrateful? she loved him. shouldn’t he know that? she loved him. shouldn’t he love her back? she loved him. why was he afraid of her? she loved him. )

 

he loved her. he breathed in and out, tried to steady his hands and remind himself of that, remind himself that he loved her. that this was an irrational reaction. the aftermath of the game. false symptoms. it’s just the game. just _danganronpa._ he loved her.

 

but rantaro’s hand is steady on his shoulder, and it keeps drawing him back to the present. keeps drawing him back to the warm room and the bathroom lights and the faint smell of soap and the feeling of rantaro’s rings against his skin. he’s hyperaware, now, of the grease on his skin, in his hair, the way his skin itches because of it. the remainder of sweat and oil that he couldn’t get rid of with a washcloth alone.

 

‘ you ready? ‘ rantaro asks, and he feels as though he is, nodding and peeling himself out of his underwear. rantaro helps him stand, and he hesitates, looking down into the tub, into the foot or so of water, and finds himself freezing again. rantaro offers him a tiny smile and, fully clothed, steps into the tub himself, sitting up to his waist in the water. ‘ it’s alright. see? ‘

 

kiyo steps into the water.

 

it isn’t hot. it’s lukewarm, at most. slowly, he sinks into it, clutching his knees to his chest at first, back tense as a coiled spring, and remembers to breathe, even if it is in little shallow gasps through his nose and - he almost tears off his mask, tossing it away from him, clutching to the sides of the tub as he wheezes for air, trying to stand back up, to scramble out, only for his feet to slip on the marble of the tub as he fails to stand, and he falls back into the water, blinded by sudden panic.

 

rantaro catches him, sitting right behind him, and pulls his back flush to his chest, wrapping his arms around him. ‘ hey, kiyo. it’s alright. you’re safe. i’m here. ‘ _you’re safe. i’m here. you’re safe. i’m here. you’re safe. i’m here._

 

he wonders how much the two things should be equated with each other.

 

but it reminds him of how to breathe, and he closes his eyes, chest heaving as he tries to get oxygen past the lump in his throat seemingly intent on asphyxiating him. he focuses on anything _but_ the water. the marble floor of the bathtub. the slow stinging ache of the cuts across his arms and the tops of his thighs. the grounding pressure of rantaro’s arms around him. the feeling of his shirt against his back. his voice, turned into a soothing lull as his brain renders words meaningless, unable to distinguish them from each other. the fact that - the fact that _i’m safe. you’re here._

 

he slowly lets his spine uncurl, resting his weight against the other boy’s chest.

 

‘ tip your head back, ‘ rantaro says, voice easy-going and calm as it usually is. kiyo envies that talent about him - that he always manages to seem as though there’s nothing that could be worrying. ‘ close your eyes for me? ‘ he follows the instructions. rantaro dips a cup into the surface of the water and pours it carefully over kiyo’s head so it pours down his hair and shoulders, and then dips it into the water again.

 

after a few cups of water to get his hair wet, there’s a faint sound of him taking off his rings. ‘ i’m going to touch your hair now, ‘ he says, voice mild. ‘ the shampoo might be cold for a second, just to warn you. ‘ and it is, but rantaro’s hands as he carefully lathers it into his hair are warm. ‘ you’ve got such nice hair, ‘ he says, drawing his fingers through it. ‘ hey, i know i asked once before, but - do you ever want me to even it out for you? it’s still super choppy in places, since you cut it yourself. ‘

 

kiyo considered it for a moment. ‘ no, ‘ he murmurs. he isn’t quite sure how to vocalize it, but it’s important to him that he keep the reminder of when he cut it - an impulsive and hasty and poorly-executed choice, but it was a _choice,_ and it was his entirely. it’s clearly _his_ hair, not his sisters, even as crooked and sometimes greasy as it is now. ‘ i . . . i want it this way. ‘

 

‘ alright, ‘ rantaro says, and he doesn’t push any further. leaves it as kiyo’s choice and moves on. ‘ tip your head back again? i don’t want you to get shampoo in your eyes. ‘

 

‘ why are you doing this? ‘ kiyo asks suddenly, as rantaro pours the cup of water out on his hair again, washing some of the suds away. ‘ i don’t . . . understand. ‘

 

he can’t see rantaro’s face now, back turned towards him and eyes shut, but he can almost _imagine_ the slightly self-depricating smile he wears sometimes. ‘ well . . . you looked like you needed help. and . . . i like to be able to help people. if i can help them or protect them, or even just trick myself into thinking i am - it keeps me steady, i guess. ‘ his fingers slip through kiyo’s hair again. ‘ it . . . makes me feel less useless, you know? so, ‘ and kiyo this time can almost imagine his gentle grin, ‘ thank you. for letting me help you. i know how hard it can be sometimes to _accept_ help. ‘

 

kiyo thinks back to the game. thinks about _i’m going to end this killing game,_ and a boy beginning to wonder if he could even trust his own self, his own memories, and a body found alone. ‘ i know you do, ‘ he says, quietly. ‘ but . . . at some point, i would like to return the favor. ‘ the water ripples around his legs. he wonders when he stopped being hyperaware that it was there. ‘ maybe not even . . . helping, i suppose. but it has always . . . ‘ for some reason, he feels embarrassed. ‘ teaching has always helped me - _keeps me steady,_ as you said. if at any point you want . . . i would be glad to. ‘

 

he feels foolish for the words, and the stumbling way they come out of him. what kind of an offer is that, anyway? why would he want that? what kind of a favor was it to simply talk too much about what _he_ enjoyed? he’s about to open his mouth, about to take back his statement, when there’s a sudden weight against one shoulder.

 

he opens his eyes and jumps a little, seeing rantaro propping his chin on his shoulder, meeting his eyes. ‘ i’d like that, ‘ rantaro says simply, and his smile this time doesn’t feel as though it’s hiding anything.‘ you seem like you’d be a good teacher. ‘

 

for some reason, that makes something warm sprout in kiyo’s chest.

 

‘ here, ‘ rantaro says, holding out a brightly-colored bar of soap. ‘ i can’t reach your legs and so on, so you can do it yourself, or turn around if you’d rather i do that too. ‘ kiyo considers it for a second before taking it, beginning to scrub himself. it smells like something kokichi might have picked out - sweet and candy-scented and very clearly artificial. he can’t quite find it within him to care. rantaro is humming something as he scoops up more water. ‘ close your eyes for a second again? i’m going to use some conditioner. ‘

 

‘ i used to do something like this, ‘ kiyo says, slowly. ‘ with my sister. when she was still allowed to . . . to stay at home, with an in-home nurse. i . . . ‘ he trails off, chewing his lips, tearing off the dry skin with his teeth, tasting the sharp tang of blood against his tongue

 

‘ you don’t have to talk about her if you don’t want to, ‘ rantaro says, gently wrestling the soap out of kiyo’s hand. the anthropologist looks at it in surprise - he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding it so tightly it had begun to mold into the shape of his grip. it doesn’t seem to bother rantaro, as he begins washing kiyo’s back and shoulders with the - now lumpy - soap.

 

‘ i . . . ‘ kiyo says, and swallows. ‘ i feel like i _should._ want to. ‘

 

‘ but do you? ‘

 

he thought about it. _really_ did, tried to think about it without her spectre breathing down his neck, without the image of her hands creeping around her hips. he shivers. ‘ i . . . don’t, ‘ he realizes. ‘ i don’t, ‘ he says again, as though he can hardly believe the words came out of him. ‘ whether i should or not, i don’t. can you . . . can you tell me about one of your sisters, instead? ‘

 

‘ of course, ‘ he says, and there’s a positive, albeit wistful, upturn to his voice. ‘ there was this one time where five of us were in france, you know? visiting - one of my older sisters had an academic exchange trip there, so four of us just decided to pack up and head there ourselves for a few weeks. we were on this boat, you see - ‘ and, smoothing his fingers through kiyo’s hair, scrubbing down his sides and back, he went on to tell the kind of story only _he_ ever had.

 

‘ — and that was around the time we found the second body. mayu was still on the train, and she could _see_ that they were about to drop it, right into the construction site. would probably have gotten lost in the concrete forever. so she - ‘ and kiyo can feel rantaro’s laugh, through the way his hands pause in his work, and the vibrations it sends up his back ‘ - i guess she thinks she’s in a bad spy movie or something? because . . . she tries to make a grappling hook. that’s where her immediate thought process went. ‘ he’s using a washcloth, now, carefully using it to wash the sides of kiyo’s face, not making him face him. ‘ meanwhile, the three of us were still all lost. so — ‘

 

the story continues, words winding and peaking, and eventually, as it begins to wrap up, rantaro’s hands fall idle - he’s just speaking, now. ‘ — i broke two fingers, in the end, but it was worth it. ‘

 

‘ that’s . . . quite a story, ‘ kiyo says. he would be dubious - if anyone else told it. with rantaro, it was just . . . hard to tell, sometimes.

 

‘ yeah, ‘ rantaro says, with a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘ well, at least i can say our family vacations were never boring. ‘ he stands up, water dripping down from the lower half of his shirt and his pants, and pulls out the stopper on the tub, the bath beginning to drain, offering kiyo a hand up. ‘ see? we’re done, now. ‘

 

kiyo blinks as he takes the hand, because - he’d stopped _thinking_ about the water at some point. the noise of it draining out makes him suddenly aware again, and his grip tightens for a second on rantaro’s hand, but he breathes easily again. it was fine. he’s safe.

 

he steps out of the water.

 

in this world, he gets to step out of the water.

**Author's Note:**

> i envisioned this taking place in the same universe as 'but first they must catch you', but you don't need to have read that to understand this.


End file.
